


That Might Be Debatable

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [250]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 09:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18407414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Tony’s never thought of clandestine anything as particularly interesting.





	That Might Be Debatable

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Secret relationship.

Tony’s never thought of clandestine anything as particularly interesting. What other people do in the dark, what they churn away at keeping concealed, that’s fucking fascinating, but having his own secrets? That’s boring as hell.

There’s a reason his “secret identity” shtick lasted a New York minute. Less than.

Maybe, too, it comes from having the worst days of his life—ok, let’s call them what Pepper does: his _most problematic_ —smashed across the front page of every paper in the world (when there were still papers): from his parents’ death to the first time he overdosed to the last time he broke out of rehab and called a press conference on the facility’s lawn to the time he broke of his engagement to a European princess live on E!News, there isn’t a fig leaf of his life he hasn’t turned over in public and by god, he’s almost fucking 50 so why in the fuck would he stop now?

Well. Because Steve Rogers asked him to, that’s why.

Steve Rogers, who’s nearly a century old and looks 25 and gets hornier than a teenager when the mood hits him right. A right-fighter who’s seen more war and death than anybody born this century can imagine; a kid from Brooklyn who gets way down when it rains, who’ll curl up with his head on Tony’s chest and sigh when Tony pets him, strokes straw blond and hums until the gray skies in Steve’s head finally give way. A man who walks around naked like it ain’t no thing and who grunts when Tony tackles him, pushes him down on the couch or the nearest bit of floor and devours Captain Goddamn America with his eyes and his mouth and his hands.

But as good as it is between them, as big and as broad and as sweet, Steve’s drawn a Maginot Line in the sand that Tony has sworn he won’t cross: ix-nay on the elling-anyone-tay that their Us even exists. Read: nobody can know, especially none of their teammates, and honest to god, Steve seems more weirded out by them knowing than any member of the piranha-like press.

“Nobody’s gonna care that you’re not straight, Steve.” (Tony’d made the mistake of saying one night).

That line had earned him a glare, a big ol’beam of blue disapproval that cut right through his bedroom. 

“No shit,” Steve’d snapped, his feathers ruffled up full and but good, the pissed-off spread of his shoulders outlined by the cheap light of the moon. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Well,” Tony said with an overly ambitious stretch. “On some subjects, that might be debatable.”

“This particular subject isn’t up for debate, Tony.” A look that could’ve cut glass, a jut of a jaw that could’ve done the same job. “If you don’t like it, fine. We can just stop this now and—"

It’d been easier to lean over and lay a smooch on that scowl than to argue, easier to worm his way back into Steve’s not-entirely-resistant arms and between his 100% willing legs than to keep poking at it, Steve’s intransigent need for secrecy where banging Tony (or being banged; Steve was delightfully switchable) was concerned. And it didn’t bother Tony on principle or anything, keeping the _in flagrante delicto_ just between them. After all, they weren’t exclusive. Nobody was wearing a promise ring or had gotten within two syllables of the L word, jesus, no. They were just co-superheores who saved the world a lot and also happened to fuck and if there came a time when Steve slept over more often than not, when he started keeping a toothbrush and some basics at Tony’s just to make the shift from fucking back to superheroes easier, well, whatever. It just made apple pie American sense. 

And if sometimes when Steve is purring beneath him, sleepy and happy and spent, Tony feels a twinge of something plum-colored, something that made him think about stupid champagne and roses, that makes him want to pull the blankets over the both of them and hold on tight the whole fucking night—that was just the dopamine talking, wasn’t it, the last gasp of good sense leaking out through his dick.

And if Steve curls a hand over Tony's cheek in a moment like that and says his name in this slow molasses way, his eyes closed and his mouth soft and knowing, no, Tony tells himself, it's just a post-coital reflex or something. That was it.


End file.
